PRODIGIOUS PROGRAMMES

Great show yesterday kid.
"He hasn't lost it," said Tommy my cat,as he held up a hulu-hoop for Henry the hoover to jump through.
"Gerry still has the old magic. That great show we heard today could only be described as-prodigious."
"The very word I was looking for under the bed this morning," I cried.
"Alas and alac," I said to the very dusty, yet attentive mantlepiece,"the world of enterainment is in a sorry and dire state.The X-factor has ruined more cubs and cutties than rickets. So-called "Stars" travel great distances at fantastic expence only to grin into a camera and say,
"My name is Rob Brydon and this is "ME" in Russia." or "I used to be in Eastenders, now here I am in China."
"And they always come BACK!" yelled Tommy."That's what yanks up my simmet,they always come-BACK!"
"COOKING!" I screamed,throwing an Ulster/ Swedish turnip at the wall.
"Did we not all grow up watching our mothers cook? And now, the tubes who run TV, think we should all sit round and watch a leering Anthony Wirrel Thompson stuff a mongoose."
"There's a new cooking programme starting on Channel 4," said Tommy."The powers that be describe it as-ground-breaking. It's called,"Who ordered the salmonella?"
"Apparently the programme is full of graphic, full frontal boking and fatalities."
"Tut-Tut," I said,as I chased the young Egyptian Boy-King who was selling papyrus from door to door."
"They come over here and take our jobs," mumbled Tommy.
"SILENCE!" I cried."If old Vince Cable gets his way, you and I shall be doing the same round the old bazaar in Cairo."
"We live," said Tommy,adding the final,deft touch to a painting of Edwin Poots riding a yellow ostrich,"we live in a world of want and waste. Last week I ordered half a ton of bubble wrap and when it arrived,it was wrapped in-bubble wrap.
"Satire noted and acknowledged, I replied.
"What we need, screamed Tommy,"is the SMACK of firm government. We all need short sharp shocks. Prison works!" yelled Tommy."As does the bacon slicer at Murphy's the grocer. Bring back Mussolini!" yelled Tommy."Bring back little Benito,he will settle their hash."
I brought Tommy's rightwing tirade to an end with a riser, which could only be described as-prodigious!

A Salute To Belfast

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which ignited a riot on a Malone road interface and had the residents of the Shankill and the Falls tut-tutting,
"Why don't those lazy, common people get off their backside and get a job?"
Tommy my cat, not to be confused with Biffo the bear, fixed me with a piercing, slit-eyed, yellow stare and said,
"I see Brian Cowan came over all tired and emotional."
"Leave Biffo alone," I yelled. "It's difficult to gather your thoughts when you've been huckle-bucking the night away."
Tommy gave a snigger and said,
"Perhaps dear Brian should restrict himself to Maine lemonade and minute waltzes."
"Brian has a difficult job," I said. "There are not many Prime Ministers who could take a thriving, buoyant economy and plunge it into penury and third world poverty."
"I'll drink to that!" said Tommy.
I settled back in my mortuary attendant's chair and began to embalm my face. Outside I could hear the little children playing street games,the hoarse yell of the herring man,the clatter of the knife-grinder's cart,the stealthy pitter-patter of the Tom-Kat missile salesman hawking his wares from door to door.
"BELFAST," I eulogised,"built near water so people could discard old shopping trolleys and drown sacks of pups and kittens."
"Hey, steady on," said Tommy.
"They don't do it now," I said. "Now that every home has a micro-wave."
Tommy peered at me and said,
"What are we? Belfasters or Belfastians?"
I rose to my feet, saluted a picture frame that is waiting for a picture of bonny, wee Lord Laird and yelled,
"WE ARE THE-PEOPLE!"
"What people?" said Tommy.
"The people who will not be hood-winked!" I yelled. "The people who will not have the wool pulled over their eyes.The people who once used to say-NO! and "part and parcel." We are the people who will not be sold a pig in a poke, or worship at the altar of the leprechaun. We are the people who know a crossroad when we see it and by thunder, we have seen many crossroads in our time."
"So we are-"special" people?" said Tommy.
"Indeed we are kid," I said. "Just go out and look at the big, high wall that separates the two "Special" schools the government put us into."
As I went outside to gloat, Tommy was on line trying to immigrate to Sudan or Afghanistan. Sometimes I think little Tommy is not hard enough, or gritty enough for-Belfast. You need-grit to live in Belfast. Belfast, is a-gritty town!
"Ring-a ring-a-rosy, snuff gets up your nosey
There comes Tubby Nolan, so we all fall down."
(Now get Thaddeus to tell us about his skipping rhymes with the girls)

Running For Gerry

Great show yesterday Kid. A great show which made a lasting impression on Tommy my cat. After the great show Tommy gathered me, Henry the hoover and Wilbur the budgie into the living room and addressed us thus,
"Friends," Said Tommy,"dear, darling friends, I have called you here today to inform you that I have applied for the job of runner, on the Gerry Anderson show."
Well, that caused some commotion I can tell you. Wilbur the budgie began to caw like a crow while dancing from foot to foot. Henry the hoover switched himself on and ran round in circles with his flexible hose twisting and swaying like a hungry python.
It was left to me to bring a little sanity to the proceedings.
"YOU TUBE!" I yelled. "You poor, deluded, stupid, thick, ugly, hump-backed, vile-featured tube."
"I will now take questions from the floor," said Tommy.
I raised my leg and yelled,
"Ken Reid from UTV LIVE. Could you tell our viewers just what you would run for, if you were appointed runner on the Gerry Anderson show?"
"Thank you Ken," said Tommy. "I'm glad you asked that question. I would run upstairs for records,run to the shop for Mr Coyle's hotdogs. I would run to purchase tights for Emma and Janet. I would run to put on bets for Ken "Screwdriver" Doherty and last of all,I would run outside to tell the naughty wind not to ruffle Mr Anderson's lovely, lovely hair."
"TOADY!" cried Henry the hoover.
"You go for it kid!" squawked Wilbur the budgie.
"Now hold on thar a cotton picking moment!" I roared. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"It's true" said Tommy. "I did not pass the eleven plus, but I see no reason why that small omission, should hinder me from being a runner at Radio Foyle."
"YOU'RE A CAT!" I yelled. "A feline, a moggy, a pussy, a tabby, a milk lapper. Who in their right mind would give a job to a cat?"
"Gerry Anderson would!" roared Tommy. "I have been in communication with Herr Anderson and he assures me the job is mine if I do well at the interview."
What a sad crowd gathered at the bus station to see Tommy off. He was wrapped in the skin of a yak to withstand the cold of Stroke City, Ulster's Alaska.
Wilbur the budgie tried to be chipper but his feathers hung sadly around his knees.
Henry the hoover was inconsolable. Never have I see so many tears from an inanimate object. He cried like a baby and wrapped his flexible hose around himself for solace and comfort. As the bus pulled away, Tommy leaned out the window and sang,
"Think of me when you're lonely. Think of me when you're blue. Think of me when I'm far away and I'll be thinking of you."
The empty chair. Ah dear God, the empty chair at the dinner table. It was as much as I could do to force down two fish suppers, five packets of crisps, three large bars of Mars and a two litre bottle of Coca Cola.
HARK! The knock on the door in the night!
I glanced bleary-eyed at my bedside sun-dial. One o' clock! Who could be knocking at my door at one o'clock?
It was little Tommy. The stupid little feline had made a hayricks of the interview.
Tommy had got on great with Gerry, Sean and the girls, but had greatly displeased Micky Bradly. How many times had I warned Tommy? How many times had I said,
"Don't poo in the Hucklebuck shoes."
Tommy is now wondering if Frank Mitchell is taking on staff to show the listeners how to parcel a gift at Christmas.
Tommy a runner? More like a scunner to me!

Tommy wants a Biscuit.

Great show yesterday kid. During the great biscuit bonaza in the middle of your show, Tommy my cat stood with his hand out at the radio like Oliver Twist. But alas, no biscuit materialized from either grill or vent. He choked back tears and whispered,
"I'm not angry. I'm not resentful, but I am disappointed. I never thought," said Tommy,staring sadly at the pouring rain,"I never thought Radio Foyle would refuse a biscuit to a lump of a cat. I never thought in my wildest dreams, that Gerry would begrudge a biscuit to a cat, who loves him like a daddy."
"Stall the weddin' and change the beddin'!" I yelled. "It was-COYLE! Coyle is the keeper of the biscuits at Radio Foyle. He is also lavatory attendant, fly catcher, French maid and plumper-upper of cushions."
"I should have known," said Tommy. "I should have known. Gerry would give me biscuits in abundance, but the evil "Eyebrow" would not give you a ricket from his leg."
"Coyle is the Jack Benny of Stroke City," I said. "He has an old penny on a piece of string which he drops into the church collection box and then whips out again. All his trousers still have flares and if he sees a man clipping a privet hedge,he is not adverse to sticking his head through the hedge to get a free hair cut."
"Gerry should make him sit on the naughty step," said Tommy.
I pointed at Tommy and vocalised,
"YOU, Tommy cat, are loved by all who know you. Anyone, even Tubby Nolan would give you a biscuit."
Little Tommy cheered up and said,
"You know the last chocolate eclair in the pantry, may I have it?"
"NO!" I yelled and I grabbed the eclair, ran up the stairs and rolled under my bed like a warthog.
Who does Tommy think I am? Saint Vincent de-Paul???

Oxter Tickling

Great show yesterday kid. Tommy my cat ticked himself under the oxter, laughed and said,
"So, old Jordie is on the magic mushrooms. I wonder what magical hallucinations will light up the dark side of the brain of our rural, rustic friend?"
"Many strange, weird and wonderful things will happen," I said."Old Jordie will see colourful doats and goats wearing gossamer dresses. His old Fergie tractor will take on the appearance of a golden chariot and with a spurt of unnatural, fungi-induced energy, the Tufter will yell,
"Get back yeh boy yeh!" and dung out his own bed, without any feminine, womanly, estrogen, hormonal assistance. THEN, the drug will wear off and old Jordie will sit with head in hands, at the fire,wondering if he should join fellow pugilist, Ricky Hatton,in the Priory clinic."
"How right Merle Haggard was," said Tommy, "when he wrote, "The going up's not worth the coming down." A song," said Tommy, "which not only applies to winos and druggies, but also people who climb mount Everest."
"It's an all round song," I said."It could even apply to going up and coming down the stairs.".
(And now for something completely similar)
"Eight weeks in jail," said Tommy."Eight weeks in the clink, the slammer, the tig house, the hotel California, the joint, the hoosegow, the hole, the can, the pokey, the jug, the calaboose, the pen, the smallest room in the Hilton, the.........."
"ENOUGH!" I interjected. "Whom is doing eight weeks at the Greybar's Hotel?"
"That nice Greek boy, George Michael," replied Tommy.
He ticked himself under the oxter again and giggled,
"It could be said, the Whammer is in the slammer."
"Praise the Lord and pass the powder puff," I said. "I thought Tubby Nolan's mountain of parking tickets had finally caught up with him."
"Tubby's a tough guy," said Tommy. "He told me there isn't a cell built that could hold him."
"A quick fix," I said,"just knock down the two adjoining walls and you would have a cell that would fit Tubby like a glove."
"Just imagine the headlines in the Sunday World," said Tommy.
"Slabberer sent to the slammer."
I tickled myself under the oxter, shrieked and replied,
"Due to his size, there's no chance of Tubby bending down to pick up the Lifebuoy soap in the showers."
Tommy and I went into a frenzy of oxter tickling and laughed and laughed and laughed!

It's All Paul's Fault.

Great show to start the week kid.
Tommy my cat turned off the radio by telling it it was Chinese, turned to me and said,
"Great shows like that will greatly ease the stringent cuts that the regime on the mainland will impose on poor, wee Ulster."
"Right on kid!" I cried. "What man, or indeed woman would not give up job and home to listen to a great show?"
Tommy looked at me slyly and said,
"In the cold, bleak Winter when the cuts really start to bite, I may have to eat you."
"Great minds think alike," I said. "How would you like to be cooked,fried,roasted or boiled?"
"Roasted," said Tommy. "There would be a degree of privacy behind the oven door. What about you?" said Tommy. "How would you like to be cooked?"
"The spit will do me fine," I replied.
"No probs," said Tommy and he spat right in my face!
After a lunch of hard boiled eggs and syrup of figs gravy, I looked out my window and saw Tubby Nolan and Jim Rodgers throwing shoes at each other. I dropped the small, Tasmanian dwarf I was nursing and ran out yelling,
"Lads, lads, we are a small divided country, spill your sweat and not your blood! You can't eat a flag! Ask not what Ulster can do for you, ask instead what Ulster can do for ME! The hand of history is on my shoulder and today I am proud to say, I too am a barnacle!"
"Nigh, nigh, NIGH!" screamed Jim Rodgers. "Keep your big nose out of this. Tubby and I are settling a score with the Universal act of shoe throwing."
"Push off!" roared Tubby. "Paul Clarke of UTV told us to throw shoes at each other."
"You fools!" I yelled."You poor, deluded, innocent, ugly fools. Paul Clarke is the sole heir to the vast Clarke's shoes empire. Paul Clarke is behind all the shoe throwing incidents all over the world. It's a ploy to increase the sales of Clarke's shoes."
"I feel-soiled and-used!" screamed Jim.
"I feel-hungry!" roared Tubby.
I took both men in and nursed one on either knee, until the dawn broke over the black mountain.
"Sleep my little ones," I crooned as I shaved both their heads and drew Hitler moustaches under their twitching noses. Jim looked like Hitler. Tubby looked like Oliver Hardy. Another fine mess I got him into.

A Golden Age

Great shows last week kid,great shows which brought back fond memories of,Jimmy Young,The McCooeys and Teatime with Tommy James.
"A golden age in broadcasting!" I yelled.
"Mrs Dale was worried about Jim and Jimmy Young was the man from Laramie."
Tommy threw a dartboard at three darts stuck in the wall and said,
"Playwright Sam Thompson broke new ground with his play, "Over the Bridge" and gave a very young Simon and Garfunkel the inspiration for, "Bridge over troubled water."
"A wonderful time to be alive," I cried. "Rationing kept the people slim as whippets. Women dyed their legs with Bisto and there were no Tubby Nolans lumbering about like veritable wheelie-bins."
Tommy looked at my dial and said,
"A quarter past ten. Up at Radio Foyle Gerry and Sean will be at the kitchen sink gargling with honey. The girls will be applying YET more lip gloss. Ken will be twirling his screwdriver like a gun-slinger and Micky Bradly will be whistling. Micky always whistles when he's nervous. One would have thought a man in his position would have a canary to do his whistling for him."
"The canary died," I said.
"May it rest in peace," said Tommy.
"How did the canary die? Did Micky Bradley take it down a coal mine?"
"The canary died of natural causes," I said. "Stress, brought on by the sound of Sean Coyle's voice."
"I hope the little chirper got a decent, shoe-box burial," said Tommy.
"All the Radio Foyle staff were there," I said.. "all dressed in black with the exception of Mr Coyle who was wearing garish, tartan plus-fores. As the little shoe-box was lowered slowly into the ground, Gerry played the last post on his Viking horn."
"A fitting tribute to a loyal friend," said Tommy as he kicked a two-stone haggis through the window.
"Watch where you're throwing your haggis!" yelled Dawn Purvis as she cycled by on a lovely, primrose yellow bicycle, with a carrier on the back and a wee wickerwork basket on the front for transporting pounds, or indeed kilos of "Special" mince.
Tommy swept all my Frank Mitchell memorabilia from the coffee table with his arm and said,
"As you know, my bar mitzvah is coming up, is everything ready?"
"Aye, Aye, sir!" I yelled.
"All the food and drink is ordered and yesterday I took possession of a very sharp Wilkinson sword razor blade and a bullet to bite on."
Tommy winced, crossed his legs and said,
"Good! Now I want you to hire Malachy Cush to sing at my bar mitzvah. But on no condition must he smile. My Jewish grandparents are flying in from Russia and a weird smile from Malachy Cush could finish them off."
"Don't worry Tommy," I said. "Even as we speak, Malachy Cush is at Duffy's circus where Coco, the circus clown is teaching him how to smile."
"What happened to Bobo the circus clown?" said Tommy.
"He died," I said,"from natural causes, stress, brought on by listening to Hugo Duncan and his diddle-dee."
"Bummer," said Tommy walking out the front door to converse with Jim Rodgers.
Jim, The Screamer, was down on his hands and knees singing,
"Little Sir Echo how do you do?" into an open manhole!
I know. I know. But what can you do? Jim used to be the mayor of Belfast!